Quincy’s quandary quelled.
Reckoning In A Church Graveyard
There are cemeteries and then
there are church graveyards. This rural one
has many tombstones, ground and scoured
by rain and ice and wind and bird squirts
and blotted by lichen and grime
Here Li ances Sm rn 1888 Di 01
Sure, boys sprayed paint and worse unzipping
blasphemies as boys will do, unrepentant
but this evening:
the churchyard, at twilight
parking lot vacant crescent moon
sickling through cottony clouds
as I pass rowed headstones. Night’s shroud
settles on my shoulders. Scorched grass
crunches beneath my sandals. Fireflies,
disguised angels, hover over memories below.
Nightingales sing antiphonally to
silent applause. A numinous feeling
flows in this soul, skin-sheened silver . . .
some blob lands on my toes—freaks me
until I see black eyes gaze at me—a toad.
He empties his bladder, hops away
for a she-toad or succulent slug.